Revelation 21:8 By Anne Wilkins

Revelation 21:8 

But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death. 

Harry tells me he’s a wolf. He pins me to the ground and bites my neck playfully; soft, low growls rumble from his throat and into my ears. His breath is hot on my skin and it burns me. Soon my whole body is like a lake on fire, burning with desire. I grab onto his hair, snaking my fingers through long, dark locks, and pull him to my open lips. Our eyes lock for a second, our pupils all black with lust and longing. I tell him I’m a witch and his soul is mine. We laugh together, a delicious sound that scents the air with our wickedness. Then we consume each other.

I was twenty when I lost my virginity, a bit of a latecomer to the party, but I’ve been catching up ever since. Harry’s my ninth. I was raised by what you would call bible bashers, and I can quote scripture with the best of them. Pre-marital sex isn’t the kind of thing that goes down well in my hometown unless you want to be branded a harlot. So, I move to towns with questionable morals and no questions where I can practice my passions without all the labels.
Harry’s asleep now, his body spent. We made love on the floor and our clothes lie scattered everywhere. There was something so wild about him, a little bit of a bad boy. Mom and Pop definitely wouldn’t approve. I sit outside the circle for a while, just watching his naked body, so still, almost death-like, almost. There’s a tantalising tattoo of a wolf just below his waistline. It seems a shame to disturb him, but he has to know.
 “Harrryyy,” I whisper. His eyelashes flicker and then he’s looking at me. It’s that same look, the one he was giving me at the bar. A bedroom look. The corners of his lips move into a lazy smile. 
“Mmmmm. What is it?”  
“I need to tell you somethin’.”
“Can’t it wait ‘til the morn?”
I sigh. This part is always so hard. The telling. “No. It’s important. Can you sit up?”
He shifts into a sitting position, reluctantly. “Is this about birth control or somethin’? Cuz you said last night you had that covered.”
Idiot. They were all idiots. “No sweetie, it ain’t about that. Thing is, I wasn’t too truthful with you back at the bar, about my name and things.”

He’s listening now.

“For a start, my name’s Maryanne, not Susan.”
“Oh, is that all… Maryanne, that’s your name? Maryanne…” He tries my name out for size, with a smile.
“There’s something else… when I said I was a witch… I meant it.”
Harry bursts out laughing, and I’m rather offended. “You? A witch? Are you going to take my soul then, like you said?”
“Yes.”
He stops laughing and starts leaving. “Thanks, Maryanne, for the good times, but I don’t do crazy. This is where I say goodbye.” He stands up to collect his clothes, he gets his jeans on, but that’s all.
“What the Hell?!”
He tries to push past the invisible barrier, but he can't. He can’t leave the circle. It’s now my turn to be amused.
 “It’s a magic circle. You can’t leave.” 
“Maryanne! Stop playing games, I want out!”
They all want out, and they all get out in the end, just not the kinda out they want.
I wish Mom and Pop had been more truthful about things when I was growing up. It would’ve explained so much, such as the reasons why I liked collecting dead things. Anything dead really. They called it an unhealthy fascination and soon they were praying for me, because they always thought the answers were in prayer. But their God didn’t have the answers for them. That’s cuz they’d been praying to the wrong God the whole time.
I figured things out when I found my real Mama when I was eighteen, the one locked away. She told me about the God she worshipped and it turns out we’re pretty much on the same page.

“For what it’s worth Harry, I liked you.”
This one’s going to go the way of the flames. I’ll miss playing with the deadness, but it’s a cleaner offering to my God. I start with the gasoline, pouring it in a neat Kandinsky-like circle around the salt. Harry’s on all fours now, whimpering. Like a dog. I think he’s praying, maybe even crying a little.  
“Don’t do this,” he pleads. His eyes are all black again, but not with lust. “You’re gonna regret it.” 

The only thing I’ll be regretting is another move. 

The circle of gasoline is complete. Harry starts screaming, it’s no use. No one will hear, not where I live. I feel a little cold standing naked, but it’s about to get real warm. I light the match, and my body lights up too, it’s a lake on fire again.  I throw the flame to the floor, and I wait. A burning can be so much fun.
The floor quickly sets ablaze and smoke starts to fill the room.
But this burning is different from the last.
Harry is different.
His body contorts and changes, like he’s possessed or somethin’. I’m witnessing a miracle. My Lord coming to reward me for my work.
“Lord?” I whisper, and I step towards the hungry flames, fanning the smoke, straining to see.

I’m rewarded with a familiar growl. 

From the flames, a large wolf leaps from the circle. He pins me to the ground and bites my neck, savagely. Soft, low growls rumble from his throat and into my ears. Soon my whole body is a lake on fire again, but this time it burns with fire and sulfur. 

Anne Wilkins

Anne Wilkins is a former family court lawyer, and now a sleep-deprived primary school teacher in New Zealand. She writes in her spare time (which she has very little of). Her love of writing is fuelled by copious amounts of coffee, reading and hope. She was the winner of the 2023 Cambridge Autumn Festival Short Story Competition and recently won the Halloween Frights genre for the 2023 Autumn Writing Battle. Her work can be found in Apex Flash Fiction, Elegant Literature, All Worlds Wayfarer, Scifi Shorts and elsewhere. www.annewilkinsauthor.com